


Disciples

by MiniMangoes



Series: The Captain's Journal [1]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types, Original Work
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Found Family, Gen, Moira curb your alcoholism, Moira probably needs therapy let's be real, does this count as a song fic?, protect the kid 2k20, turns out the real cult leader was the captain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:21:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25382992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiniMangoes/pseuds/MiniMangoes
Summary: In a quiet Scottish cottage, a captain thinks about death and destruction. A cult ensues.
Relationships: Original Character(s) & Original Character(s)
Series: The Captain's Journal [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1838770
Comments: 1





	Disciples

> _Don't you want devoted followers?_
> 
> _Who leave their families for you_
> 
> _Give their money to you_
> 
> _Give their bodies to you_
> 
> _Give up their lives for you_
> 
> _Consider you God, and will kill for you_
> 
> _Don't you want to become a cult leader?_
> 
> _Since the death of God there has been a vacancy open_
> 
> _You can fill that void, here is how_
> 
> _\- Disciples, Captain Murphy_

* * *

In the peace of a lonely Scottish cottage, Moira dreams of fire and smoke. 

Well, slight correction. She dreams of fire and smoke, wakes up with the burden of living, and promptly decides to drink into oblivion.

 _A dream like this is long overdue,_ Moria muses into a half-empty bottle of scotch. What’s life, really, without a couple of regrets here and there? She pretends to ignore the worried glances of the Kid, who’s nursing their own glass of - _is that vodka? Is the Kid outdrinking me? Shit_. 

Moira takes another swig. 

The flames of the dream are now long forgotten, in its place a smoke of alcohol and adrenaline. She wants nothing more than to break the glass bottle, claw out Ghost’s smug face, tear away her clothes and her seal skin and throw it in the fire - but that would mean getting up and actually doing something, and the last thing Moira wants is a reminder that she is alive. 

It’s not that she’s alive that particularly bothers her. Moira’s enough of a captain - that is to say, a narcissistic, cannibalistic egomaniac, drunk on illusions of glory and desire - to appreciate her life for what it is: an opportunity to punch smug bastards in the face. No, what truly irritates her is that every step is a reminder that Moira lives on borrowed time, a debt paid with layers of loyalty and devotion and death in the pursuit of self-enriching vainglory.

It’s a big responsibility, being a captain. You have to be a particular kind of stupid, an arrogant kind of stupid that shoots in broad daylight or spits at the queen or carves a smile into a dead Kelpie. An intoxicating kind of stupid that reworks reality with honeyed lies into an isolated world of wooden planks and the unforgiving deep. A heartless kind of stupid that convinces others to entrust you with their lives and their fate while you smile and send them to die, convinces others that they can be something more than pawns in a battle of inflated egos and petty vendettas.

A good captain - a good leader, really - is nothing more than the world’s greatest conman. You create a world, rule it with an iron fist, and build it again when it collapses. And again and again and again, until the entire world shakes at your presence and you are left with the smell of glory and death, the lead crown of captaincy. You create a world in your image, only to hurl it towards other worlds in a meaningless, careless challenge, a pyrrhic victory as ships crumble in gunpowder and burning flesh. You create a world with the desire to destroy it, until you are left with nothing but dust, nothing but another blank slate to recreate the world anew. You create a world with scarred hands and pristine white gloves and the rotten fragrance of hope. 

_Princess Andy is a bastard, but at least he is a good captain. Shit._ Moira downs the rest of the scotch in a feeble attempt to stop thinking.

Contrary to popular belief, Moira wasn’t a bad captain, really, not in the way it matters to most. She pays her crew, in food and money and blood, and asks for nothing but their service in return. In the quiet domesticity of the ship, she can almost fool herself into being satisfied. She hears the loud complaints of Dinkleshire over _some proper English breakfast, for once_ and the annoyed response of Jimmi Hendrix of _this is an Irish ship, we eat Irish Breakfast!_ , and the faint smile on Simon’s tired face, and wishes for the illusion to never end. She looks at her little found family, huddled in the captain’s quarters over breakfast of hardtack and haphazardly placed glasses of coffee and rum and water, and sees that they are _happy_ , sees the crinkled smile of Zoe and the confused glee of the Kid and thinks that maybe, _maybe_ , I can be happy. Maybe, this is enough for me.

But in nights like these, when her blood runs hot and she stares into her scotch-colored reflection, she wants more. She wants, hands itching and scalding, and she remembers. She remembers the flaming ship and the furious tempest, the whispered words that dare her to die - but she is never one to turn away from a challenge - and her reckless bravado that responds in kind. Remembers the gradual realization of the crew, who are furious and terrified and serene in their resigned acceptance of the inevitable. They glow in frenzied fury, a toxic mix of adrenaline and righteous anger, who see through her honeyed lies and her hidden stupidity, and yet follow her anyway. In the last few moments, before a death they did not wish for, they choose to believe in her lies and her crumbling world, for she is the captain and this is her world, and ships love their captain and die for their captain. Her ship will break and her crew will die and the world will be no more, and she feels alive and invincible and _loved_ , deathless in the face of death. In these precious moments before their collective downfall, she is God.

She pulls off the gloves.

_I will lead you to your death and you will be glorious._

What is a captain, if but a cult leader of the sea?

Maybe she could give the Kid some tips.

(She is itching to take off her gloves, anyway.)

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfic was inspired by an amazing session of D&D and the realization that maybe, you're the bad guy. Moira is trying, but progress is not always linear, and old habits are hard to break. I wanted to give my character more depth and hopefully some self-growth, but instead the end result was a hangover and new enemies. Oh well - you gotta start somewhere, I guess.
> 
> Song is "Disciples" by Captain Murphy.
> 
> Kudos and comments are always welcome :)


End file.
